


They Shall Be Forgiven Him

by asemic



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Minor Character Death, Pre-execution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2020-01-12 11:49:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18445967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asemic/pseuds/asemic
Summary: John Irving attempts spiritual comfort prior to Cornelius Hickey's execution.





	They Shall Be Forgiven Him

**Author's Note:**

> Obvious canon divergence for 'Horrible From Supper'. Little takes Hickey and Farr hunting and Irving plans the fresh-water parties.

“I am here to provide spiritual comfort. I debated with the captain and commander and myself, but it seemed merciful.” John clutched the Bible to his chest, his only remaining layer of armor. His greatcoat provided none. It did nothing for Edward Little: the man had been gutted and his belly splayed like a gaping mouth. 

“Mercy exists here? Still? Fine, might as well.” Hickey snorted like a horse and dug his heels into the rocks. “How long?”

“Roughly an hour. Gallows are a simple contraption.” He grew ill at the sound of hammers ringing against the wood. Always a pure sound of creation now used to be the end of a man. They buried his friend so quickly but Hickey would remain exposed. Used as bait for any predators slinking around. But John knew the only wolf in kilometers remained seated before him. John's mother deadheaded rose bushes to benefit the plants. Cut the waste and they will flourish. 

“Usually a tree would do but we’re lacking. And where’s the ceremony when a noose is tightened by a man’s hand alone, Lieutenant?” Formal even now. Blood still under his fingernails. “Thou shalt not.” 

“You’ve broken the commandment, Hickey. Your morality is charred from the fires of hell consuming you.”

“Do your spiritual comforts come later in this conversation or were you sent to drive me towards the rope?” 

John struggled to temper his anger. It was a waste, his friend murdered, the natives murdered, dead under one man's blade. And he dared to hold his head innocently, questioning and seeking guidance. And still Hickey batted his lashes while barely hiding his smirk. The book’s dull smack muffled the hammers and wiped the insubordination from his face. The second created a satisfying snap and adjusted Hickey’s knife-edged nose. They gush like bilges, but his Bible was textured and did not leave his grasp. God may forgive John when he asked, but in his rage he did not dare try.

“I could have. I could have.” _What?_ He gulped his confusion while Hickey struggled to breathe, each gasp bloody choke.

“Saved my soul? Pray for Cornelius Hickey, sir. Pray for _him_ ,” Hickey spat. Tears flowed from the pain: snakes lacked emotions. 

“Never.” He condemned the name to be uttered with bile. Let him beg the Father to uplift him because John turned his attention to the soul of his fallen brother and those in need. Cursed to be torn by animals, his clothing and boots redistributed to the deserving, history judged Cornelius Hickey as a blight rocks and gnashing teeth would grind to dust.


End file.
